Sealed Shut?
by ElderTom
Summary: After the Oblivion Crisis and the events of Knights of the Nine: Revelation, the Empire is in disarray, but Nirn, it seems, is safe. But are the Jaws of Oblivion truly sealed shut? It is clear now that the veil between Nirn and the Daedric realms is not as stable as once was thought. Will agents of chaos seek to reopen the Gates? If they do, who will stop them this time?
1. A Council of Peers

Chapter 1

A Council of Peers

It was an uncomfortable gathering, this table of notables. Each chair was occupied by an individual with an astounding pedigree. In one, having traversed the Jerall Mountains, was Bjorn Ebonsmith, the Harbinger of the Companions, one of Skyrim's finest warriors. To his right, Ogrutto Urgash of Orsinium seemed to be sizing up his neighbors as though they were competitors as oppose to allies. Across the table, High Chancellor Ocato seemed uncomfortable under that Orcish gaze. And next to him sat Sovirya Indaril, the youngest Arch-Mage in the Arcane University's history.

To her left sat a man, cloaked in black, a shadow unto himself, who offered "Peregrinus Tenebris" as his given name. He wore a rather menacing smirk on what could be seen of his face. Undeterred, Barrus, now Captain of the Blades, though only a select few knew that fact, occupied a seat next to him. And of course, this circle would not be complete without the Champion of Cyrodiil (some said the entirety of Tamriel, which was possibly true), Isola Vitelli, wearing her newly forged armor, an honorary member of the Order of the Dragon. Filling out the table were other dignitaries and nobles from the provinces, though, noticeably absent, was any representative from the Summerset Isles. Off in a corner, though, near the Valenwood contingent, there was a rather out of place Altmer; why he was with the Bosmer was something of a mystery. Whose interests he represented was even more mysterious.

And then, there he was, wearing a simple, ill-fitting grey robe that barely covered his knees. Most mistook him for an overgrown Nord; a few as a rather robust Altmer. But his origins, were somewhat more complicated. His mother had been a Nord, hence his fair complexion and dirty blonde hair. But Nord's don't grow to nearly nine feet tall while weighing near 40 stone. But then, most Nord's don't have a Giant as a father.

His Order taught humility and unobtrusiveness, but those tenants were more easily followed by those of ordinary size. He had learned humility, thanks to the Companions, but unobtrusiveness would never be truly possible for him. So he wore the monk's robes as a means of portraying himself as one who sought peace rather than conflict, though he was prepared for either, his armor and weapons never far.

"Sir Jace," Ocato, brought him out of his introspection, "as the Divine Crusader and leader of the Knights of the Nine, would you open us with an invocation?"

"Of course, Chancellor," he responded without too much hesitation. "Let us lift our hearts and minds to the Nine. Arkay, Dibella, Mara, Talos…" he continued with the Pantheon, giving thanks and beseeching wisdom, closing with a special word of gratitude to Akatosh for saving them from the terror of Mehrunes Dagon.

He lifted his head after finishing, glancing around the room, catching the smirk of Peregrinus. He ignored it, knowing—or at least, guessing—of this man's affiliation. That he had influence, there was no doubt. The real mystery was how he obtained an invitation to this gathering. But that was a mystery for the Imperial authorities to solve.

"My lords and ladies, friends, old and new," Ocato began, with a nod toward Sovirya, "I thank you for your presence here, during this, the infancy of the Fourth Era. We've much to discuss, and much to decide. But as a word of caution and to ensure we do not rush to judgment, I must declare that the future of Tamriel will not be decided in one night. So I advise that we be very deliberate in our discussions, addressing each issue with due diligence, and seek to make the best and most informed decision possible."

Murmurs of agreement followed; a few side comments, and a stifled snicker, but the table stayed orderly, for the most part. Jace chose to listen, rather than attempt to direct any discussion. After the battle with Gareth, a battle that had rivaled even the Oblivion Crisis itself, he and the Knights of the Nine were interested in keeping the peace rather than engage in direct conflict. Of course, if needed, they would support the Empire, but the need would have to be dire and the opponent would have to be an enemy of the Nine, not just an Imperial Adversary.

"But warlords are nothing new. They may rule a swath of territory for a season, but they pose no great threat."

"The same was said after Kvatch was destroyed, or need I remind you?"

"You can remind me the next time a Daedric warlord occupies your territory; otherwise, it's a non-issue. The Legion is stretched thin as it is.

"And yet, banditry and marauding have gone up three fold since Martin Septim passed. Who's to say it won't increase further?"

"Is the Fighter's Guild unable to keep up with the new demand? Should we get them to recruit more?"

"The Fighter's Guild was founded to supplement the Imperial Legion and take the excess jobs, not serve as its lap dog or do _its_ job.," Modryn Oreyn entered the conversation.

"Fair point, Modryn. But what of the Holy Orders? Knights of the Circle, the Iron, the Lily? Do they not take part?"

That was his cue.

"The Knights of the Nine, along with their brethren in other holy orders, will, on occasion, unseat a warlord too close to a settlement or make our presence known to run a bandit gang off the road," he paused to scan the room, "but our purpose is to fight the undead, _hostile_ vampires," he glanced at the Count of Skingrad, "and Daedra. So unless your warlord is a rogue Valkynaz or Mannimarco back from the grave or one of Dagoth Ur's relatives, we respectfully and humbly allow and encourage civic authorities to perform their civic duties."

He caught the eye of Sovirya, no doubt for his Mannimarco comment. But he had fought alongside her during the Oblivion Crisis. He was not worried about her opinion of him; nor was she of his opinion of her. He glanced away, not wanting his thoughts to linger too long on the Arch-Mage.

"However," he continued, "when there is a threat to the realm, unholy or mundane—or otherwise—we will of course, serve as needed to protect men and mer. We did not sit idly by while Dremora bands roamed these lands, and we did not sit idly by while Gareth played Emporer. And as Cyrodiil is still reeling from a fault made by our Order—a fault that was, admittedly, mine—we will take part in providing order and security for one year, or until the Legion is back to full strength; whichever comes first."

"And we thank you, for both taking responsibility for your actions and for your willingness to serve time as just recompense," the Chancellor said, smiling warmly.

"Likewise, we too will lend you aid as we are able," Modryn responded in kind. "It is only right that we do so, seeing as a healthy Empire means a healthy Fighter's Guild."

"And the Arcane University is, as it ever was and will continue to be, at your service," Sovirya added.

"Well, I'm glad that _Cyrodiil_ is so well cared for," Lord Ugrash sounded annoyed, "but what of High Rock?"

"And Hammerfell?" said a heavily accented Redguard.

"And Morrowind, of course," voiced a member of House Dres.

"My lords, my lords!" Ocato sought to regain the room, "as stated earlier, we will not solve every problem here tonight. Sir Jace's declaration does not solve all of our problems, even those here at the Capitol," he paused to breathe, "it is merely a start. We've much to discuss. My Lord Ugrash, why don't we begin with the Kingdom of Orsinium, and progress eastward from there…"

The conversation that followed he could best describe as civilly heated. All decorum and proper gesture was observed, but beneath the surface pleasantries was the question that nobody had yet to ask: could there be an Empire without a Septim on the throne? The Altmer standing with Valenwood seemed amused by it all; his smug grin was a bit unsettling.

When they finally adjourned for the evening, the mood in the room was one of frustration. The provinces were seeking Legion aid, but with Gareth's Usurpation following so quickly on the heels of the Oblivion Crisis, there wasn't much of a Legion. Many recruits were in the academy, and scores of city guards had been pressed into service, but most lacked the experience and training to be counted on as actual legionaries.

Perhaps, for the time being, the Holy Orders would have to set aside their desire to stay out of the political realm and at least aid in maintaining peace in their respective regions. He had set the example by offering the Knights of the Nine, though part of his reasoning was penance. Hopefully, the Knights of the Rim and the Lily and the Iron and the newly forming Vigilantes of Stendarr would follow suit.

Much like Oreyn had put it, a healthy Empire meant a healthy Fighter's Guild. It was the same with Holy Orders, Knights of the Nine included. He only hoped his counterparts saw the same.

The fate of Tamriel would not be decided tonight. But the future of the Empire, if it had a future, would determine much in that regard.


	2. A Fortuitous Company

Chapter 2

A Fortuitous Company

He wasn't entirely disillusioned by the Council's decisions, but neither was he entirely pleased. Status quo, or as close to it as possible, seemed to be the order of the day. Some were pleased by that; no higher taxes in exchange for greater cooperation with the Legion. But without new sources of revenue, the Legion wouldn't be capable of any major movement or action. To say nothing of dwindling numbers.

This didn't sit well with Ocato, and both the Daggerfall and Hammerfell delegations were somewhat peeved, but Valenwood and Elsweyr seemed intent on ramrodding any motion to increase Imperial power. The Black Marsh delegation left early, two nights before they were supposed to, sneaking out in the dead of night.

The Great Houses of Morrowind brought their own politics into the Council meeting, with Dres and Redoran fuming the most, while Hlallu and Indoril said not a word to each other. The Neverarnine himself, wherever he was, couldn't bring the Houses together at this point, their common struggle against Dagoth Ur already forgotten.

He tried to take his mind off of all that, but his present company wouldn't let it go.

"You'd think someone in your station with the last name of Indaril would have some pull with Morrowind. At least one house…" Isola Vitelli remarked, shrugging her shoulders before polishing off her glass of wine.

"And you'd think the Champion of Tamriel would have a say in all of it," the Arch-Mage responded, less of a challenge and more of a sigh.

"We are just figure heads to them, you know," Modryn said wistfully. "We are notable, but none of us are noble, even our favorite Indaril," he tipped his ale to Sovirya.

"I told you, third cousin of a friend on my uncle's side, twice removed," she half-chuckled, swirling her still full glass of wine with her mastery of Telekinesis.

"Even Knighthood isn't enough to warrant a say of consequence," Modryn glanced his way.

"Even if it did, my title is almost ceremonial. I was knighted by a man thousands of years dead, and I keep that title begrudgingly," he responded, his mead sitting idly in its mug. "My Order has power, there is no doubt, but we still pay taxes to the Crown, dubious as that now sounds," he jested.

"HA! And here I thought the Nine were exempt from such things," Isola remarked.

"Only the churches; not the armed factions," he said solemnly.

"It's true; even in Morrowind, the Imperial Cult pays their dues," the Arch-Mage offered.

"Maybe you should have been a priest instead of a knight," Modryn snorted, and the company was able to share in laughter, despite the otherwise grim conversation.

"Yes, I can picture Jace now, trying to stoop over to lay his hands on Dagaiel Sagewind, blessing her before her next bout in the Arena," Isola managed between breaths, and the table erupted again at the mental picture the Champion had just painted.

"Where is our favorite Bosmer?" Sovyria asked when the laughter subsided.

"Probably being famous somewhere; she does have a good many admirers," Modryn commented.

"She'd make a terrible Knight of the Nine, with fame like that," Sovyria gave him a light elbow to the ribs.

"She lacks humility, that's true, but a faster blade, I have never seen," he commented.

"I'll never forget her leading the Gladiator Brigade into the Temple District," Isola offered. "Saved an entire battalion of mages, to say nothing of clearing the way for Martin and the rest of us."

The table went silent as they remembered the Imperial City aflame with Oblivion Gates. Swarms of Daedra filled the streets with blood. Modryn and Azzan, of the Anvil Chapter of the Fighter's Guild, led a heroic sally to relieve the by-then-beleaguered Legion, while Sovyria, recently given the title of Arch-Mage, led a hodgepodge group of veteran battlemages, scholars and students into the fray.

Isola Vitelli—with Martin, Jauffre, Baurus, and a handful of blades and palace guards—surged from the palace to keep from being besieged. Jace, alongside his original Knights of the Nine, by chance, were visiting the Arboretum, keen to be present for what they thought to be a coronation. Instead, they found themselves swept into battle, just days after defeating Umaril at Garlas Malatar.

The final result of Martin's sacrifice notwithstanding, it was a fortuitous gathering of heroes. Each played their part in ensuring Mehrunes Dagon was kept out of Nirn. And they became fast friends besides, which made the troubles with Gareth at least slightly more manageable. It was good to have allies.

"I'll never forget when the big bastard himself showed up. Made Jace look like a Riekling," Modryn chuckled.

"Every Xivilai that wandered through a Gate made you look just as miniscule," Sovyria retorted.

"Every Nord walking in Bruma does the same, but I'm used to it," he snorted defiantly.

The table shared in laughter again.

The city bells tolled. 11 in the evening.

"Friends, I go to evening prayer. And I leave early in the morning for Castle Relleis. I've got to break the news to the rest of my Order. I hope to see you all soon. Perhaps my duties will bring me near you; perhaps not. Do come and visit, if the latter is the case."

"I'm sure I can find a contract to take me near Skingrad," Modryn quipped. "Take care of yourself Jace. You'll always have a place to stay in Chorrol."

"And if I should run into you on the road, make sure to remind me you're from Nirn and not a Xivilai with fair skin out for a stroll" Isola jested.

"Let me know if you find a Necromancer nest, and I'll be right there to help you raze it to the ground," Sovyria added.

They all stood to leave, exchanging hugs and handshakes and back slaps, a few last words. As he turned to duck beneath the door frame, he felt the Arch-Mage grab his elbow.

"Come and see me at the Arcane University before you depart," with a kiss upon the cheek.

It was all he could do not to blush.

"Of course I will…wouldn't miss it," he stammered.

"Good," she smiled warmly, and went back to their table.

He'd have to pray extra tonight.


	3. A Holy Arrangement

Chapter 3

An Orderly Arrangement

It was good to be home. His friendships with Modryn and the rest aside, it did his soul well to be back in the counsel of his inner circle. Like he, they had traversed the kingdoms of Nirn, and had knowledge that was beyond his own, and wise counsel to offer because of it. Knowledge and counsel which he now sought.

"Do you think it possible? That is what I ask," he prompted them again.

"It's possible, yes, but is it likely?" Sir Geimond of Skyrim sighed. "Given its unlikelihood, I just don't see why we should expend our energies to it. There are plenty of other needs to which we should attend."

"I'm of a mind with Sir Geimond," Sir Areldor offered. "If I know anything of my time within the Chapel of Stendarr, it is that knights affiliated with holy orders don't always get along. Aligning them to a common cause without an actual and present threat is a gamble with poor odds."

"Well, if I know anything from my time in the Legion, it is that unity in peacetime is more difficult to maintain than it is to forge during conflict," Sir Carodus offered. "However, I'm of the opinion that there may be enough of a threat of conflict to even those aforementioned odds out."

"I concur," Sir Gukimir replied. "Though, it may help to actually have a source of conflict identified before we begin our negotiations."

This was the conversation taking place in the war room. He had come back to Castle Relleis hoping to put his plan into immediate action, but he wouldn't take action without consulting his original nine first. And the debate had gone back and forth. Perhaps it was time to put it to a vote.

"Perhaps we're going about this all wrong," Lady Avita offered. She had been silent to this point, no doubt lost in thought. He wondered where her thoughts were to lead them next.

"Explain what you mean by that, my Lady," Sir Lathon said.

"Against Umaril, against Mehrunes Dagon, against Gareth, we were all needed here. Our presence in Cyrodiil was necessary," she looked around the room. "But with these threats gone, and with our immediate service no longer needed, perhaps it is not the other orders that need to join us. Perhaps it is time to open chapters of our own in other provinces."

The room was silent, all of them no doubt turning these thoughts over in their respective minds. It was not a wholly terrible idea. He figured to play advocate, to see where the conversation led them.

"We certainly have the numbers now; we could have fully operational chapters up and running without having to recruit heavily."

"Yes…let numbers draw numbers," Sir Thedret mused.

"It does help that we have members across the racial spectrum," Sir Brellin lent in agreement.

"Not everyone in the Empire follows the Nine," Carodus murmured. "You needn't have served in the Legion to know that fun fact."

"True; but that does not stop the other orders from operating out in the provinces; why should it stop us?" Areldur countered.

"We'd still have to request for a charter; that may be easier in Skyrim than it would be in Black Marsh or Summerset Isle," Gukimir replied.

"I don't know that Summerset Isle would be all that interested in our presence," he said, with a glance to Areldur.

"And why, my Lord Jace, would you say such a thing as that?"

"A delegation from Summerset was conspicuously absent at the Capitol. Call it a hunch, or simply a feeling. I don't think that bodes well for the Empire. And subsequently, us."

"But we don't fight for the Empire; we fight for the Nine," Avita weighed in.

"Be that as it may, the Empire grants us a charter to operate in an official capacity; without that, we're just religious zealots."

"But we've earned that charter!" Geimond argued.

"We've earned it here in Cyrodiil, yes. But with the provinces largely governing themselves, it would be ill mannered for us to enter their territory without going through the proper channels!"

The conversation continued back and forth in this way. The sun had been set for over an hour before he decided it was time to put this debate to rest for tomorrow.

"Knights! Enough!" he rose above the verbiage. "We will not decide this tonight, that is clear. I suggest we put it aside for now. Let us now dine, again, as comrades with a common cause. Then to evening prayer we will go. And on the morrow, after a sound sleep, we will come to a decision. But we will do all of this together. For the Nine."

"For the Nine," they echoed solemnly; or exhaustedly, it was difficult to tell.

He shook his head, sighing. This entire day felt like punishment for the morning he spent with Sovyria. He hoped that this was the only punishment he was to receive.

He was actually, for the first time since he first donned the armor, afraid to see if he was still worthy to wear it.

It had been a fitful night's sleep, and he was still confused by the dreams from which he awakened, but the day was upon him regardless. He put on his Amulet of Burden, and went through his morning exercises.

Out in the yard, he felt the eyes of the morning watch upon him, but he did his best to ignore them. Most were new to the Order, and had only heard rumors of the Half-Giant. And yet there he was, impressing them by his mere existence, to say nothing of his training regimen.

Before he was finished, right on cue, a conjurer in the service of the Order approached him, inquiring with his eyes if it was time. Rubbing the sweat from his brow and nodding, he picked up a simple iron battle axe with which to fight. The conjurer closed his eyes, spread his arms, and began channeling his mana until the morning silence was pierced by the rupturing sound of the Veil being torn accompanied by the eerie purple light that accompanies such spells.

In front of him now, summoned from the plains of Oblivion, was one of the few things that stood as tall as he: a Xivilai.

"Attack!" the conjurer commanded, sending the big blue creature toward him, claymore raised, face determined.

He met his opponent with the same determination. Winded from his morning regimen and still wearing his amulet, he opted to go on the defensive first and let his opponent drive at him. He parried blows, counterattacking only rarely, allowing his footwork to wear his enemy down.

Under normal circumstances, it would be amusing to think of someone his size ducking underneath an opponent's swing, and yet the Xiv went with a high swipe, forcing him down. He made a jabbing movement with his own weapon, forcing the creature back and creating some breathing space after being charged at the start.

His foe sought next to strike low, and so he went airborne, swiping at the creature's head as he did so, putting it off balance. He landed and swung high himself, causing the Xiv to lean away and back step.

"Not for much longer now, my Lord," the conjurer cautioned him.

Such was the nature of these conjurations, he supposed. He wanted to win before the creature was pulled back to its home. When next it hacked at him, he met the claymore with his axe and closed the distance between the two, succeeding in disarming both the Xiv and himself. It would be hand to hand from here until the finish.

So they wrestled in the yard. It wasn't often that his opponents' strength could rival his, but that's why he had requested the conjurer from Sovyria. He needed to stay on top by fighting the kinds of enemies he wasn't likely to encounter on Nirn.

"My Lord, now or never!" the conjurer said, straining under weight of the magic he wielded.

So he forced his adversary away from him, leapt to his feet, then in a blur of movements, the speed of which surprised any who had ne'er seen him move in battle, he sent a knee into the Xiv's abdomen, hoisted him into the air and slammed him down to the dirt. He followed with an elbow right into its spine, and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch. His foe vanquished, he witnessed again the veil being torn and the sky crackling with purple electricity as the Xiv was sent back to Oblivion.

Applause from those on watch accompanied his victory, which he did his best to wave away.

"Well done, my Lord," the conjurer said with a slight bow. "Soon, you will be wanting to fight two at once, I should think."

"When that happens, I may ask you to put me to sleep instead," he chuckled in reply. "Still," he continued, "this kind of training may be good for the entire Order. We need to stay sharp. And bandits and wolves aren't likely to provide the grindstone we need."

"Shall I send for my friends at the University, Sir Jace?"

He pondered, wondering what the rest would think of his decision to willingly summon beings from Oblivion for the sake of training. It would take some convincing.

"Let me think on it, Jacques. It's not a decision I'm willing to make on my own."

"As you say, sir. I am ever at your service. Well done, again."

He returned the magician's bow and turned to head back inside. He needed a bath after that bout. And this time, it would not be in the company of the Arch-Mage.

He sighed, remembering his time with her…he wasn't sure if he was supposed to remain chaste or not. He wasn't a priest; but neither was he a common soldier. He would consult the Prophet. On this and other important matters.

It was after midday when a decision was finally reached. He summoned everyone back to the yard.

"Knights of the Nine, hear me now," he beckoned.

The murmuring and conversation died down, and for the first time since that morning, he could actually hear the birds again.

"Look around you. Look to your left and to your right. Look at your neighbor. What do you see?"

A dull murmur replaced the silence, but it was not unpleasant. He watched as the Order glanced around them, smiling to himself.

"What you should see, is that we, the Knights of the Nine, have come from far and wide in service of the Nine. Men; mer; Argonians and Khajiit. From Hammerfell, Black Marsh, Skyrim, and all over Tamriel. But we all wear the same armor. We all bear the Red Diamond!" he paused, allowing his words to settle.

"Many of you have called Castle Reillis home for some time now. Some of you will call it home for longer. But after tomorrow, many of you; most of you, will not."

The dull murmur grew louder. Looks of confusion passed through the ranks. Eventually, they all looked back to him.

"We are over two hundred strong now. And even though the Order is needed here in Cyrodiil, we," he gestured to his inner circle, "believe it would serve the Nine better if the Order were spread across Tamriel," he paused again, but continued before more side conversations could begin anew. "On the morrow, you will be sent forth, in groups of nine, to open chapter houses across the Provinces. Your mission remains, as always, to expel Daedra, vampires, Necromancers, and the undead. But with one new caveat: you will serve the Nine by growing your chapter houses. Any that come to your door with a contrite heart and humble spirit dedicated to the Nine are to be welcomed as novices. Train them; discipline them; guide them. As our Order grows in service, so grows the glory of the Nine," he closed his eyes.

The subsequent hours were filled with questions, confusion, and finally, clarity. When at long last, every question had been answered, every concern set to ease, he motioned once again for attention.

"You know how serious our mission is, my brothers and sisters," he said. "To that end, I send you forth with my blessing and with supreme confidence that we will succeed. Our cause is noble and just, yet take heed: do not abuse your power or influence. Take no part in political rivalries. Snuff out dark powers where you see fit. And be mindful of one another. Our actions as a Holy Order are unprecedented."

"We are not rivals with other orders; remember this. Should you encounter the Knights of the Hour, or of the Rim, or of the Iron, or the Vigilants of Stendarr, we share common interests. Join in their battle against evil, and surely they shall join us in ours. Let us offer praise to the Nine!" and so they prayed.

"Now then," he began, their prayers finished, "I'm hungry enough to eat a mammoth. Shall we dine?!"

A roar of approval followed his rhetorical question. He only hoped that his plans would be met with the same enthusiasm.


	4. Forward Unto Nirn

Chapter 4

Forward unto Nirn

He couldn't remember the last time he had visited his home. The closest he had been was a trip to battle Daedra at the Battle of Bruma. Vitelli had sought his and his Order's aid in the battle. Of course, at the time, it was just he and the original nine. It would have been overwhelming on their own, but they held the line, and he was even able to enter and close one of the gates himself, a feat few could boast of…not that he was boastful.

Now the prospect of being responsible for setting up a Knights of the Nine chapter house in Skyrim excited him. He couldn't recall being this giddy about anything. Sir Gukimir had told him of the view; once they cross the Jerall Mountains, be sure to keep your head up, he had said. And he made sure to; and he wasn't disappointed.

It truly was breathtaking. The vast expanse that was the Kingdom of Skyrim was lain out before him, and he paused to take in as much as he could.

He learned from the Companions to savor every moment. Because, as the saying went, one may never pass this way again…although their paraphrase—one may never swig this ale again—was somewhat less poetic. Still, it captured the essence of who they were.

"So this is where the Children of the Sky call home," Sovyria said, barely audible on the frozen wind.

"It was my home once," he responded. "Hard to believe it's been that long since I last set foot here."

"Yet here you stand. On top of the world."

"Some say that title belongs to Atmor," he chuckled. "I wonder if we should open a chapter house in that frozen world," he pretended to muse.

"As long as you focus primarily on Talos, you shouldn't get any push from the natives," she jabbed him.

"If there are any left living up there," he mused.

"Come then," she gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I need to get to Winterhold, and you need to get to Solitude. And it's not getting any warmer standing here," she shivered.

"Indeed," he replied. "Knights of the Nine, not much further today; we make for Helgen. Once there, the hard part of the journey is over."

"Not if Sir Geimund's tales of the tundra are to be believed," one of his knights jested.

"Yeah! Mammoths and Sabrecats and Giants…real Giants!" another shouted.

"My Lord Jace, you may be ordinary sized here," the first quipped.

"That I may be, Conroy, but what does that make you?" he jested back, playing along.

"I suppose that makes me a Goblin."

"Then we'll have to find you a cave to live in," Sovyria japed, and the company shared in the jest.

Her presence with their company made some of his male knights nervous at first—rumors of their particular relationship abound—but he and she had behaved themselves, and she took part in their prayers and rituals, gradually gelling with the group.

And it made him feel better knowing she would be protected all the way to Winterhold. She didn't need protection, as powerful as she was; not really. But he enjoyed playing the stereotypical knight-rescuing-a-lady all the same.

"We should reach Helgen by nightfall; let us be off then," he commanded the company, and thus began their descent into Skyrim.

After a few hours of hard climbing, he called for a breather. They found refuge from the harsh winds within a boulder formation. It looked like a fortification; almost strategically placed.

"They say Skryim protects its sons and daughters," he said to no one in particular. "A man may build a castle; but he may find one already made for him if he knows where to look."

"I'd say. Even a small force like ours could hold this position against a force ten times our number," Conroy whistled, eyes upon the rocks.

"It may have to for a night; look at that storm approaching," replied Sovyria.

"What, those clouds? They're going the other way, surely," Conroy seemed to be telling no one but himself.

"I've mastered Telekenisis; I can sense the energies moving through the air; it's coming our way. We could try march further down, but it may be best to prepare to weather it here while we've the time to set camp."

"I agree," he said, trusting the Arch-Mage. "Knights, set camp. Gather whatever wood you can find to supplement what we have. This storm appears…windy," he finished solemnly.

And when the gales hit, they cut right through his armor and clothing and sliced into his very soul. He could not remember the last time he was this cold; in the recesses of his memory, it was likely when he had trained with the Companions; part of his survival training. But that was decades ago. Skyrim may be his birthplace, but he was far from home. And the others weren't fairing much better.

"I thought Bruma was frosty," Conroy said between broken shivers.

"I've been hit by frost spells that felt like fire compared to this," Sovyria agreed.

"It is…rather unpleasant," he replied, trying to remain stoic, at least outwardly.

"Do you know how long this storm will last?" a squire asked the Arch-Mage.

"One moment," she closed her eyes, and looked to be in deep thought. "A few hours. We'd best retire for the evening. Bundle up tightly," she joked, "not that you need my advice on that."

"I don't suppose you could just send this storm away," Conroy asked, only half in jest.

"I could; but I won't unless our lives are in danger. Magic is not to use for the sake of comfort when natural occurrences must take place. Otherwise, I would make it a sunny day in the Imperial City every day. But that is irresponsible use of magic."

"Ah; worth a shot."

"Knights!" he bellowed over the gale, "into your tents; bunker down for the night. I will take the first watch."

"I'll join you," Sovyria whispered to him.

"It will be chilly," he responded.

"I won't change nature to my liking, but I can still warm myself," she chuckled. "I'm actually warmer than that campfire."

"Ah, to be arcanely blessed as you are. Very well," he said, "it will be good to have company. Nights in Skyrim tend to be longer than in other places."

Hours later, once the storm had died down, the sky clear with stars and was bright with what looked like rays of light from further to the north.

"By the Nine, I had forgotten," he said to no one.

"That sight alone was worth the trip," said his companion.

"It will be even grander once you reach Winterhold," he said. "The legend goes that Talos is sending his divine rays from Atmor. At least, that's how your backwoods Nords would put it."

"There's a scientific explanation for it, but I won't bore you with it," she elbowed him in the ribs.

"I appreciate that," he said as he caught her arm and gave it a squeeze.

They were silent for a moment, but only a moment.

"How long are we going to keep doing this?" she asked him.

"Do what?" he asked.

"You know full well what I mean, Sir Jace," she chided him. "For over a year now, we've been lovers, but you act as if you wish it weren't so. Do you? Do you wish we were not as we are?"

"Sovyria…" he took a deep breath, "Sovyria, I don't know what my order would say. Or what the Nine would command in that regard. I…" he paused, searching for words, "I know how I feel about you; and I think you know how I feel about you. I just worry about what the rest of the world would think about the Divine Crusader and the Arch-Mage of Cyrodiil being lovers."

"Oh, damn what they think," she said, frustrated. "Like we are the first powerful figures to ever know love. If the Countess of Chorrol and Ocato were to suddenly find each other, who's to say they can't share a life together? It doesn't have to be some scandal."

They were silent for a time. He tore his gaze away from the horizon and looked at her, and felt like he was actually seeing her for the first time. She was in love with him, he realized. And despite his best efforts to not fall for her, he knew the opposite was true.

"You're right," he allowed. "I shouldn't allow the thoughts of others to control my actions. Not when it comes to you and I."

"So what are you saying? Are you ready to hold my hand in public now?"

He laughed at that. The idea of it, yes, but the picture of it too. He, the near-nine-foot-tall fellow he was and she, the diminutive Dunmer, holding hands. It was a bit comical.

"I'm to understand that there is a Temple of the Divines in Solitude," he said. "If we're serious about us being an us, then perhaps that is where we should go."

She looked over to him.

"So we get married in some Temple at the edge of the world where no one will see?"

"We can make a grand event out of it when we return to the Imperial City. That may be a while, given the nature of our missions. But for us to work, we need to make it official and holy. And what better place than in the sight of the High King of Skyrim?"

She was silent, turning her gaze back to camp, then back to him.

"You had best make me a better proposal than that, Sir Jace," she chided him again.

He laughed. And she shared in it.

Then he dropped to one knee, still taller than she was, but for the sake of tradition.

"Sovyria, since we met to drive away necromancers, undead, and Daedra, I have never known one as brave and strong in the face of danger as you. Facing the dangers of this world, I would face them with none other than you. Sovyria Indoril, in the presence of the Nine, will you face those dangers with me, as my friend, lover, and wife?"

She pretended to be shocked, but he knew her answer.

"By the Nine and by the Temple, yes, yes I will!"

In one movement he rose back to his feet and picked her off the ground and wrapped her in a deep embrace.

"Well, that's quite a scene to wake up to," he heard Conroy's voice.

He turned, still holding the Arch-Mage in his arms.

"And what of it?" he asked.

"Nothing, my lord. Nothing at all. Just, hoping we're all invited to the party after. Nords are supposedly hardy drinkers; and a union such as yours calls for celebration of the most robust!"

He felt Sovyria laughing into his chest, and so he shared in the laughter.

"Of course; of course. We'll make a day of it," he managed.

This was turning into quite the interesting journey.


	5. Harbinger of the Divines

Chapter 5

Harbinger of the Divines

Their journey to Solitude was without incident. Not surprising, since with their sheer numbers, bandits and wild animals alike were not likely to approach them. They were able to see the Giants and Mammoths that roamed the lands, from what they supposed to be a safe distance. And it was true what was said of them; Mehrunes Dagon notwithstanding, he had never felt small until he saw just how giant a Giant truly was.

And they also witnessed one of the famed Sabrecats take down a deer with what appeared to be minimal effort. Even the wolves prowling the forests west of Falkreath seemed larger than their cousins in Niben Bay. Clearly, to travel the wilds of Skyrim alone would be a dangerous feat. He'd rather face ogres in Colovia than to attempt to take down one of his distant kin; or face a pack of these hounds alone. Even facing Xivilai seemed to him a more manageable battle.

And yet, in spite of the very visible dangers here in the wild north, they arrived in Solitude without much more than awkward glances from the locals.

"Ah, civilization at last," Conroy exhaled as they traversed the road to Solitude.

"We passed through Dragon's Bridge just last night," another said.

"I stand by it," Conroy replied.

"Well, stand quietly and don't be too ostentatious with your comments. Skyrim's Nord's are notorious for seeking fights for no reason at all," he told Conroy, but loud enough for his Knights to hear. "We're a holy order; don't forget why we're here."

And with that word of warning, they passed underneath the archway into the capitol of Skyrim.

"Our first stop is the Blue Palace. I will proceed there alone. No need to show up in force; the King may mistake our intentions."

"Aye; as you will, my lord. We are to the Temple of the Divines then," one of his more pious brethren announced.

"I suppose we can wait for the ale 'til after the wedding then," a sober Conroy sighed.

"Indeed. Go and pray that our lengthy errand comes to fruition. I shall see you soon."

He found his way up the road, passing various shops and their vendors. It was a capitol city, to be sure, but it felt more like Anvil than it did the Imperial City. But not every city had the benefit of a large flat island and Ayleid architecture to build upon. Still, it was grander than Falkreath had been.

He felt the stares, but tried to ignore them. Half-Giant's weren't unheard of in Skyrim, but they were—that is, he was—still something of a novelty. His armor probably did him no favors in his desire to go unnoticed.

"You there, halt!" a thick accented voice commanded.

He knew it was directed at him, so he paused and did his best to appear non-threatening as a handful of guards approached him.

"We've had word of a traveling group of mercenaries; marching on the road as if they own it; led by a man far larger than any Nord could ever hope to be. Know anything about that?"

He glanced at each of the scarlet-clad soldiers, sensing their nervousness. They lived with Giants outside the city walls. It was another thing entirely to deal with one—even half of one—directly.

"I assure you, we are far from mercenaries, though some of them used to be before seeing the Light of the Nine. You may have noticed that the large company of which you speak is even now at prayer in the Temple of the Divines. I promise you, our intentions are strictly honorable."

Not the response they were expecting.

"Well, that is, uh, well…we'd like you to come with us to Castle Dour. For processing. Then you can be on your way."

"That won't be necessary," another Nord bellowed. "I will vouch for this man."

"My Lord Ebonsmith!" the guard said, mouth agape. "Then you know this…man?"

"I should; we were both whelps in Whiterun before he went south and I was chosen as Harbinger!"

"Bjorn!" he exclaimed.

"Sir Jace," the Harbinger responded with a bow. "I was approached not too long ago with a contract. A roving band of mercenaries in white armor led by, and I quote, 'the biggest Nord I've ever seen' and I knew it had to be you. By chance, I was on my way to the capitol myself. What good fortune that I arrived here before you to save you from these fine gentlemen."

"Indeed. I was hoping to visit a castle, but preferably a Blue one and not one so…dour."

"Haar! Always with the puns, Jace. It is good that you are here. We'll head to the Blue Palace together; unless these fellows wish to keep you?"

"No…no, of course not. Forgive my rudeness, Sir Jace. The Divine Crusader…" he whistled, caught himself, and visibly unsure of what to do next, bowed and back pedaled, his men in tow.

"Not the friendliest greeting I've ever experienced," he commented to his old friend.

"I've heard rumors of a Xivilai in strange armor," Bjorn clapped him on the shoulder, "so it is far from the worst you could have had," and they both laughed, sharing in the jest.

"What brings you to Solitude, my friend? I thought I'd see you in Whiterun on my way home…"

The laughter left Bjorn's eyes, though he tried to keep his smile planted on his face.

"All in good time, Jace; though I could as the same of you. But let us talk with the King and his court, and say all that needs be said once."

"Fair enough," he replied, as the pair walked up to the Palace.

"We didn't get a chance to speak in Cyrodiil," he mentioned as casually as he could.

"No, we did not; and that was unfortunate. I meant to speak with you, but those morons from Valenwood kept stalling and Elsweyr was causing a fuss…there never seemed to be any time. And then I had to return to Whiterun. Being Harbinger has its responsibilities. But I'm sure, as the Divine Crusader, you know of such things."

"That I do, my friend. Tell me," he continued, how did Skyrim fare in the Crisis?"

Bjorn made to think it over in his head. And kept his voice low when he responded.

"I'm sure you saw the Oblivion Gate remains scattered along the road and outside of Falkreath. We were hit hard. Most of the Jarls were under siege. The Companions and I were able to keep Whiterun from the same fate, but then it became our responsibility to rescue Falkreath and Morthal," he paused again, rubbing his beard. "The Imperial Legion in Solitude was able to drive the Daedra out and then sailed to save Dawnstar. Both Markarth and Windhelm were in a perpetual siege that none could lift, but they held. Much of Riften was burned. Winterhold, well, you know how that went."

"Indeed," was his humorless response. "And you no doubt heard of Ald'Ruhn…"

"Oh yes; and we all know of Kvatch. All over the Empire, the land was scorched and cities burned…except Summerset…"

"You noticed that too, then?" he probed.

"Just as you noticed Summerset didn't send a delegation to the Imperial City," he said.

"Difficult to overlook," he acquiesced.

"Mark my words: that spells ill. How bad the sickness, we've yet to see. But it spells ill."

"On that, we share an accord."

They were silent the rest of their walk to the Palace. Each lost in his own thoughts.

When they had at last arrived, both put aside their dour moods and wore the smiles of friendly diplomacy.

He was suddenly glad of Bjorn's presence. Not just for the incidnent with the guards; but the Harbinger of the Companions carried weight with the title, wherever he—or in some instances, she—went. If nothing else, having Bjorn there would be a visible endorsement for his mission here.


	6. Crusaders and Kings

Chapter 6

Crusaders and Kings

"My lords and ladies; Thanes, Housecarls, and dignitaries from beyond the North: arise, as High King Thian and Queen Macalla grace us with their presence!" exclaimed the herald.

The royal couple entered with a retinue of guards and attendants. It was all very formal, far more than he would have expected from a society that prided itself on its brutishness, but he supposed royalty and nobility had to put on at least some air of dignity in the face of foreign representatives.

"Please, be seated," the king demanded in the guise of a request, scanning his audience with his roaming eyes before settling on him. "For the sake of all of those present," he declared, "we, the children of Skyrim, will not be intimidated or forced into coercion, whether by friend or foe; mortal," he forced eye contact, "or otherwise."

"Ahoo! Ahoo!" his guards shouted, bashing their gauntlets on their shields.

"Now then; what's to be decided today?" the queen spoke.

A number of petitions from those first in line were heard. Minor things, mostly, it seemed. But there was one petition of note; a nest of Hagravens was causing havoc amongst the townspeople of Rorikstead. Whiterun's troops wouldn't go near it, claiming it was beyond their paygrade.

"Then surely, the Companions would be your next contact, would they not? Why come you to me?"

"Good King Thian, even if we pulled our resources together, we could not hope to afford a contract with the Companions. We turn to the throne, as protector of the realm, to protect us, your subjects."

"Then would not the Jarl of Whiterun be your sponsor? Would he not be responsible to finance the protection of his Hold?"

"Whiterun is still recovering from Oblivion's siege, my king," the man was growing visibly irritated.

"As are we all, or did you miss the scaffolding repairing the very walls that surround you when you entered my city?"

This king had a decidedly less than appetizing personality, he observed. Almost to the point of pettiness. Perhaps instead of waiting his turn, he could take the opportunity of necessity to force his way into Skyrim. He only hoped his fellow knights were having better luck in their respective provinces.

"Your Majesty," he stood, and the room went silent.

"Who is it that interrupts these proceedings?" the king demanded. "Speak, or have you lost your nerve?"

"Forgive me, good king, but I believe I have an answer to your problem."

"Well, this is certainly a first!" Queen Macalla exclaimed.

"My queen, I'm sure the people of this city, amongst others, had the same reaction when denizens of Oblivion swept out of their Gates and into yours," he replied.

"Hold there! You say too much. Guards! Arrest him!"

"Your Majesty I assure you, I mean no harm and no offense, to you or your wife!" he tried to explain.

"Yet you dare stand before being summoned, armed and armored as you are?"

"My king, perhaps I can be a voice of reason in all of this," Bjorn stood beside him, and the room was silent once again. The Harbinger of the Companions carried weight indeed.

"Bjorn Ebonsmith; you are always welcome in my court, as you know. But who is your… _companion_? Does he not know proper decorum?"

"Forgive his outburst, my king, I beseech you. He is unaccustomed to our ways, though he is one of Skyrim's sons; returned from his years abroad."

The guards looked to their king, wondering with their body movements what was to be done. He realized that in a war of words, the High King of Skyrim and the Harbinger shared near-equal footing. He decided to break the silence.

"Humbly, and with great respect and humility, a thousand pardons, I beg of you, Your Majesty," he began, taking a knee as he did so. "I only wished to offer my service—that, and the service of my Order—so that not only would Rorikstead be protected, but that by our service, your very realm would be more secure."

Thain looked to ponder a moment, before ordering everyone out, save for the Harbinger and him. Once the room was clear of people, the king summoned the two of them forward.

"And whom is it that you represent, friend of Bjorn Ebonsmith?"

"I am but a servent of the Nine, great king," he started after some hesitation. "I hoped to have an audience with you. I come baring a proposition for you, one that would be of great benefit to your realm at almost no cost to you or your coffers."

"Well, you have our attention now," Macalla offered.

"Yes, indeed you do. Now before you say anything else, I demand whatever name you go by and any titles you carry. Speak."

He had hoped to avoid such an exchange, preferring anonymity, but how long he could remain anonymous when he was the largest man around.

"A noble king, such as yourself, has surely read _The Song of Pelinal_?"

"Of course. We all know the story of Pelinal Whitestrake. What of him?"

"Good king, I am Sir Jace, the Divine Crusader."

The king's jaw dropped, but only briefly. The queen eyed him suspiciously, then, he suspected, with a hint of lust.

"I've heard that the Knights of the Nine had been reformed, and that the Relics of the Crusader had been found; but I never thought to see them for myself…you wear them now? They look so plain…"

"Pardon, good king, but presently, I wear only the armor my order. But the relics are never far from me, should I have need of them."

"I think you need them. Right now," the king replied. It was a demand.

"Ah…as you wish," he said, rising again to his feet.

The throne room grew bright as he summoned the relics. Most of his knights had seen him perform the ritual of the Crusader before, but those in the room most likely had only known conjuration magic as practiced by the arcanely gifted, or necromancers. This seemed similar, and yet so different, as he saw in their eyes.

A blinding flash of light, and there he stood now, clothed in the Armor of the Crusader, sword and shield strapped across his back, mace hanging from his belt.

"Truly…you…ah…that is…my Lord Crusader!" Thian stuttered.

"So the rumors are true," Macalla exhaled.

"That's a sight I'm likely not to forget," Bjorn whistled. "I'd trade all the Skyforged Steel in Nirn just to wear that armor once."

"I hope I have proven myself to you, good king, kind queen. Might we return to the matter at hand?"

"Of…yes…by…means…" Thian stuttered again.

"Good then," he said, saying a quick prayer to the Nine for once again finding him worthy to wield the relics. He reversed the ritual, and was once again in his ordinary armor, bearing the simple Red Diamond; the aura that had surrounded him subsided.

"That was…well…we are honored to have you here, Divine Crusader. Sir Jace. Now, to your proposal…"

He laid out for the benefit of all his plan to open a Chapter House for his Knights. Preferably a castle, with a forge and room for growing crops. Ideally centrally located, so as to be able to respond to any threats. A place where any who needed them could find them.

"I find your proposal interesting. Tell me, good knight, how this will help my realm?

"The man who asked you about the Hagraven nest? He would come to us, rather than seek your aid. We would deal with Hagravens; witches; necromancers; any Daedra still lingering in Nirn. In this way, you would be free to deal with political enemies, at home or beyond. But your realm would be secure from within from elements and enemies of the supernatural variety."

"And what do you seek of me, apart from territory that is mine to grant?"

"As we would not seek to be paid as the crown or a Jarl or other companies would," he nodded to Bjorn, "we would ask that we be free from traditional taxation. We do not seek to profit from our presence here; only to serve the realm."

The king stood walked over to the window. Either in thought or giving the illusion that he was thinking. Likely, his mind was already made up, one way or the other, but of that, he could not actually be sure.

"Sir Jace, I will need a bit of time to think this through. And drawing up paperwork, if I decide in favor, will take some time. And I will need to locate territory, probably outside of Haafingar. Somewhere more central, as you propose. Even if I told you yes this very moment, it would take longer than a day to make official."

"It took us some time to cross Cyrodiil and the Jerall mountains. The Knights of the Nine practice patience, good king."

"Ha! I'm sure you do. Very well. Come back on the morrow. I will have my decision for you then. Is there anything else I might do to be of service to the Divine Crusader?"

"Well, it is more of a favor than a service, but, I am to wed soon. A great honor it would be, if the High King of Skyrim were to be present."

The room went silent, again. It seemed to be a common occurrence when he opened his mouth. He'd have to see what he could do to address that particular phenomenon.

Then the king began laughing. Not mocking; just jovial.

"Forgive me, Crusader. I forget myself. I just had no idea that you…well, that any of a Holy Order could do that."

"I'm unaware that I cannot," he joined in the laughter. "It may be that I will set a precedent."

"Today has been an interesting day in Solitude," Bjorn whistled.

"Well, I can't decide that tonight either. Being a king, even High King, means you must discuss taking a piss with your advisors. But rest assured, when you return tomorrow, I will have answers for you."

"Splendid. Thank you, Your Majesty. My knights and I will be staying in the Temple of the Divines, should you require our services."

"And you can find me at the Skeever, my king," Bjorn turned to follow him out the door.

"A moment, Harbinger, if you please," Thian beckoned him.

"Oh, ah, of course," he replied, clapping him on the back as they parted. "How may the Companions be of service to you, my king?"

And as they parted company, he felt his mood darken just slightly. But he brushed it aside. Though he had known Bjorn longer, the Harbinger and the king were likely in far more constant contact. Matters that didn't concern him. Mundane matters of a political nature, he told himself. Not his concern. Not his realm.

Once again outside, he felt the cold bristle his face whiskers. Not terrible, though, this cold. Then why was he shivering? He looked to the northwest, and felt his chill deepen. There was something…something there…but what?

Ideally, once they received their charter, he could find out. It was not nothing that he felt ill at ease.

A rustle of grass to his left, and a shadow seemed to disappear just as he turned to look. He gripped the hilt of his sword, but there was nothing to fight. He shook his head. It had been a long day. A warm fire and prayer in the Temple of the Divines would set him at ease.


	7. Startling Discoveries

Chapter 7

Startling Discoveries

He had no idea. He should not have been so arrogant; that attitude does not befit a Knight of the Nine. But word travels slowly. And even the most powerful mages and warriors have their limits.

So the Altmer had suffered losses. Greater casualties than he had ever realized. No representative from the Crystal Tower to White Gold Tower, for the Crystal Tower was no more, felled by the hordes of Mehrunes Dagon. He said a silent prayer for the Altmer lost in the carnage.

Sir Areldur was the bearer of this revelation. He thought it prudent to send the former priest of Stendarr to his ancestral homeland and the news he carried back with him was startling.

"It is worse than anyone realized. They fought valiantly, but were eventually overwhelmed. By the time Martin eventually sealed shut Oblivion's jaws and the Gates were closed, the Crystal Tower was in ruins. The carnage was…palpable," Areldur finished.

"Then the reason Summerset sent no delegation was that; and here I thought them to be embittered," he said wistfully.

"It may be that you weren't far off," the Altmer cautioned.

"What do you mean by that?" Avita asked.

"My thoughts exactly," Gukimir added.

All of the original nine had returned from their missions abroad. Most had met with success, as he had in Skyrim. Daggerfall, Hammerfell, High Rock, even Black Marsh, much to his surprise, were receptive of their offers to serve, and even agreed to their terms. Morrowind had been a struggle, but eventually came around.

However, Sir Brellin returned from Valenwood with mixed results. Elden Root allowed the Knights to set up shop, as it were, but limited them to an ancient Ayleid ruin—of all places—on the coast of the Abecean Sea. And would tax them besides. It would make more sense to set up a chapter house in Anvil. But they would persevere, he claimed, by their devotion to the Nine. Perhaps after serving Valenwood for a time, they might revisit terms.

The situation was even worse for Sir Areldur. Not only was he very coolly received, but Alinor outright refused any presence of the Knights of the Nine. Lady Avita experienced a similar reaction in Elsweyr. Hopefully Areldur could now explain why.

"Before I begin, I must ask Sir Brellin and Lady Avita a very important question," he started, glancing at both of them. "Did either of you see an Altmer, dressed in gold-adorned brown leather, at your proceedings?"

"It happens that I did," Brellin answered him.

"As did I," Avita echoed.

"Then we may have ourselves a situation developing," he sighed. "After we were denied a presence in the Summerset Isles, I sent the rest of our knights home, along with my armor, and took the garb of a monk of Auriel."

"Much like you did after the attack on the Priory," Geimund said, remembering Gareth's attack.

"Just so. Though I pass for Altmer more easily than Ayleid," he joked, but only to nervous laughter. "I did some digging and turned over a few stones to get to the bottom of why we were not just refused, but outrightly denied a presence in Summerset. The situation is worse than any of us realized."

All eyes turned to him, but he merely raised an eyebrow, nodding to Areldur to continue his tale.

"The attack on the Temple of Dibella was seen as a religious attack; one done by Daedra; perhaps only looked on in that way because of the Oblivion Crisis. The veil had been torn. Of course Umaril would send his minions to attack. But I assure you, the reality is far more sinister than that."

Areldur started pulling the seemingly disconnected threads together. The ban of imperial goods in the Summerset Isles. Umaril's strike in Anvil and his presence in Garlas Malatar, conveniently on the Abecean Sea. A connection to the Mythic Dawn. The fact that only the Crystal Tower and its surround was attacked, while the rest of the Isles remained unscathed.

Then he reminded the group of one overlooked fact. Mancar Camoran was an Altmer, one with connections to the very group that was taking power in Alinor.

"So, what you're saying is, the Oblivion Crisis, Umaril's Resurrection; Gareth…it was all connected?"

"More than that. It was a plan long in the making. It was all an elaborate attempt to put Mer back in power over men."

"But we stopped it. Martin defeated Mehrunes Dagon. We beat Umaril. And then we defeated Gareth," Sir Thedret said.

"Yes. We did. But look at the Empire right now. It's in shambles. There's a reason Gareth appeared right after Dagon was defeated. His plan to take over and bring back the Ayleid Empire was part of Alinor's plan. It very nearly succeeded, in large part thanks to our misplaced trust in him, and his abuse of the Crusader Relics."

"But how could they have known the Crusader's Relics would be successfully brought back for Gareth to use?" Sir Carodus asked.

"Right; how can you plan for something as unlikely as that?" Sir Lathon added.

"It was a gamble; a risk. But a calculated risk. Jace," Areldur turned to face him, "tell me about your time with the Companions. Do you remember a certain wizard you helped at the College of Winterhold? How he asked for you specifically?"

"I…I do…yes…" he said, remembering. "I was still a whelp with the Companions, but I was asked for by name; a sacred contract, the letter said. My origins were well known; the bastard son of a Nord and a Giant, brought to Nirn by Hagraven sorcery, but raised by the Companions and brought up to be…well, holy."

"That is correct. And who do you think asked the Hagraven to endure your birth? And how is it that the Companions found you?" he leaned in; "Who do you think orchestrated the union of your birth parents?"

He stood up and went to the window, dizzy. His mind swarming with the tale he was being told; his origin story…a story he thought he knew; but now…his very existence…planned?

"So…the contract…the sacred contract…it was part of the plan?"

"Indeed," Areldur said, with notes of sorrow in his voice. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way, Jace. And I'm sorry to be the one to tell you. But your very existence in Nirn was part of the plan to bring the Empire to its knees. Set in motion before most of us were born," he paused, inhaling slowly. "That sacred contract of yours; that holy mission you went on, was a test of your piety. And that wizard was only too glad to see you succeed. You were the one to find the Crusader Relics. So the plan had its linchpin. I believe we all know the rest of the story."

"In spades," said a very stoic Avita. "The Knights of the Nine…we actually helped them…we actually were a tool used by Camoran."

"But we beat Gareth…the Ayleids were defeated, and the Elder Council restored."

"But it is only restored in name. Gareth wasn't supposed to be beaten, because you," he continued with a nod, "weren't supposed to return from the past. You did, and we defeated him. But he did enough damage whilst in power to create enough chaos and anguish that the Provinces see how ineffective Cyrodiil is without a Septim on the throne. What little strength the Elder Council still wields will be tested; and when the power in Alinor sees how weak the Empire is, it won't take long for them to make their push, and move their capital from the Crystal Tower to White Gold Tower."

"So they let the Crystal Tower fall on purpose?" Brellin asked.

"That sounds absurd," Sir Geimund put in. "Why would you do that?"

"If you make your nominal protector look inept, then you force your people to turn to another," Carodus said. "That's why Morrowind gave us so much trouble; we pulled the Legion out to protect Cyrodiil, and Mournhold wasn't able to field a large enough army to effectively combat the Daedra. The only reason we have a chapter in Morrowind is because King Helseth is friendly…but how long that arrangement lasts…it's not looking great."

"So they sacrifice the Crystal Tower?" Geimund still didn't sound convinced.

"Like the crusade for the relics; a calculated gamble. And even though their plan has deviated from the original blueprint, their gamble seems to be paying off."

"And it looks like we were the dice they threw," Gukimir said somberly.

The room was dead silent. Everything they had fought to protect, every battle they had been in…was it all for nothing? Were they really just pawns?

What had appeared to be a bright spring for Tamriel was rapidly declining into a bleak winter.


	8. An Unexpected Guest

Chapter 8

An Unexpected Guest

For all the doom and gloom that was expected, it had been a relatively quiet few months. But far from a comforting quiet, it was, rather, a nervous quiet. They had been on few excursions other than their normal patrol. The West Weald had been trouble free ever since Castle Relleis had been designated as their home base. Lawbreakers knew better than to operate in their territory.

Of course, as Modryn pointed out to him on more than one occasion, it meant more trouble in the other counties. Anvil County was supposedly a haven for bandits and pirates alike. And Kvatch County was still too lightly patrolled. Take your life in your hands, or take an army, as the locals put it.

It would have to be addressed, but that was a problem for the Legion, not the Knights of the Nine. But it still boded ill; the Provinces were already acting more independently. If the Elder Council couldn't control Cyrodiil, how could they be expected to maintain the Empire?

Perhaps, he thought, he could extend their patrols further west, past Skingrad; they certainly had the numbers, since Alinor refused them a presence in the Summerset Isles. He'd have to ask Janus Hassildor, but he didn't see any reason why he would be refused. It was likely Countess Umbranox would ask them just to patrol all the way to the Abecean Sea.

He sighed; he couldn't accomplish anything if he just continued to stare at the map. He'd have to take action. But first, some exercise to get rid of this nervous energy.

He went down to the yard, as he always did before the sunrise. Amulet of Burden around his neck, and garbed in only a light leather jerkin, he went into the cool, fall morning air. After going through his routine, sweat rolling off his brow, he noticed the conjurer awaiting instruction.

"Something of a different flavor this morning, I think," he told the magician. "Can you summon three Valkynaz at once?"

"Oh…ah…one moment…yes…yes I believe I can, with the help of some scrolls; they will be more limited in terms of time, but it can be done," he said.

"That's okay; I need the feeling of being surrounded and outnumbered. It has been some time since that's happened."

"Of course, Sir Jace."

The morning sun seemed to darken as the wizard began communing the planes of Oblivion. The morning watch looked on, as they always did, but he ignored their stares and their whispers, and focused on the task at hand.

Two sparks and the conjurer's scrolls went up in blue flames as the cloudless sky was riddled with thunder and lightning; and two rather nasty looking Dremora stood in the yard, one with a halberd, the other wielding a shield and a broadsword. Another joined them after a few seconds, battle axe in his hands.

He grabbed an iron claymore and nodded to the magician.

"Attack!" he commanded.

He been training against Xivilai and Aurorans for so long, that he had forgotten the speed at which Valkyns could move, and they were on him almost before he could bring his blade to meet the halberd thrust of the first. But only almost.

He parried the thrust aside and spun away from the swipe of the battle axe. His momentum carried him right into the shield of his third opponent, knocking him off balance and into the dirt. That was fortunate; one momentarily a non-threat; he'd have to remember that move.

He returned to his battle stance and was able to clash blades again with the halberdier, keeping aware of the battle axe to his right flank, and guessing that the swordsman was probably already on his feet again. He needed to reposition and keep them all where he could see them.

Swinging his claymore upward, he put the halberdier into a back pedal, ducked and rolled from another swing of the battle axe, and found his footing as the swordsman lunged shield first into his chest. That would have knocked over most mortals, but the swordsman found himself back on the defensive as soon as its feet hit the ground.

He raised the iron claymore to swipe downward, and the found his blade caught; the battle axe! He released his grip rather than attempt to free it, and lunged for the swordsman, catching him by surprise, and ripped the shield from his grasp. Shields, Bjorn had told him, were just as effective a weapon as a blade.

Finding his footing again, he found the battle axe Valkyn rushing his position, broadsword Valkyn behind him. But where was…

A searing pain in his side accompanied his side step; the halberd may have pierced his spine if he had not maneuvered just then, but he was hardly unscathed. Nothing that couldn't be healed later, but he needed to win first; or last long enough for his adversaries to be pulled back to Oblivion.

He used his free hand to grab the sharp end of the halberd and gave a hard tug, pulling its owner closer, then knocking its helmeted head with the edge of the shield he had stolen. The Valkyn's grip loosened, the weapon now out of its control, and with another shield bash in its face, it hit the dirt.

Whirling around, swinging wildly so as to create space, he forced his other two opponents back. Halberd in hand, he now had a decided length advantage over the one with the broadsword; he could wait. It was the battle axe one he wanted.

"Not much longer now," the conjurer bellowed over what he realized was the roar of cheering and shouting from his knights.

He moved into the Valkyn with the battle axe, testing its footwork, and then finding an opening, closed the distance, getting inside the axe's effective range. The Valkyn tried to swing, but was only able to make contact with the haft, and that landed squarely on the shield. He went low into his opponent and lifted him off the ground, and received a gash across his halberd wielding arm for his effort. The swordsman.

Whirling around again, keeping his weapon close to his body, he swung with his shield, catching the follow through stroke from his third opponent. The clang was near deafening, but the weight behind his shield was far greater than the weight behind the sword swing, and knocked the swordsman back. And now, the length advantage of the halberd would be the deciding factor.

After hearing the satisfying thud of the battle axe Valkyn hitting the ground behind him, he knew it was a simple one on one. His light jabs were parried easily by the last Valkyn, but behind the helmet, his foe had to know he was beaten. He would go down swinging, however; Dremora always do.

He closed the distance between them, forcing the Valkyn to engage, which it did all too eagerly, and using the edge of his shield effectively again, he landed a solid blow to the head. The Valkyn dropped his blade, and nearly unconscious, dropped to his knees. Another shield blow and he was out cold.

He took a step back to survey his work. He had successfully bested three Dremora Valkynaz while managing to avoid serious injury. He would need patching up, but overall, it was a successful bout.

The sky crackled, and the Dremora were ripped back into Oblivion, and he was again aware of the roaring of his knights around him.

"Well done, Sir Jace, well done! Never have I seen such prowess. And you didn't even deliver fatal blows!" the magician said ecstatically.

"Yes, well, if they had been more than mere avatars, I would have stricken them from Nirn. But I saw no need, knowing they would be gone without my aid," he smiled, then exhaled. "I believe I am in need of some medical attention."

"That is true, but mere scratches against those odds. It is more than any mortal could hope for."

"Most, I suppose," he said pensively, thinking of the story of his dark origins. "Well, I had best get cleaned up. Thank you, again."

"It is ever my honor, Sir Jace."

After cleaning up, he was breaking his fast in the dining area, his usual portion of chicken and oat bread. Oats are for horse, he was teased, but then, he weighed nearly as much as a small horse, so he took it in stride. Smiling, as he thought about the joke, he looked up and saw a face he was sure he would never see outside of Skingrad.

"My lord!" he said, beginning to rise to his feet.

"Please, Sir Jace, remain seated. You'll only make me feel smaller if you stand."

"Forgive me, I…I am surprised to see you here; in the middle of the day."

"I arrived in the dead of night; I was your guest, and fortunate to have a room with a view; my window faced down into the yard. And what a sight it was."

"No more than a sight such as yourself, outside of your castle."

"True; I have earned that reputation, I suppose; but you and your Order have quite a different reputation than what I witnessed this morning. The Knights of the Nine, sworn enemy of Daedra, necromancers, and all manner of undead; willingly summoning Dremora to Nirn. Oh, the irony."

"Yes," he replied, but then countered, "and here I am, the leader of the Order, conversing with a vampire, in my very castle."

The two shared a hard stare. Then both laughed at the absurdity of it all.

"Trully, Jace? Three Valkynaz at the same time? Are you so bored that you must risk your life in a training exercise?"

"I must stay in top form, Janus. I hope I never face those odds in real life; but I do wish to be prepared for it if I do."

"It was a rather astonishing feat. Do the rest of your knights train with such vigor?"

"They train at levels appropriate to them…and for the record, neither I nor any in the Order summoned those fiends. It was a wizard from the Arcane University."

They shared another laugh. And he took a moment to realize just how surreal the scene may have appeared. Janus Hassildor, the Count of Skingrad—and a vampire—here in Castle Relleis, in the late morning. It was almost poetic. And no doubt, suggested an urgency.

"What brings you here, my lord? Surely, a messenger to summon me to your city would have sufficed?"

The laughter left the Count's eyes.

"I would trust what I have to say to you to perhaps three other people; friends of yours, as it happens. But none other."

So it was serious. Deadly serious, by the sound of it.

"Tell me, my lord; what is it that would bring a vampire to the Knights of the Nine while the sun is still shining?"

The Count looked to a banner of the Nine; the Red Diamond on a field of white. The Order's standard.

"It's been quiet, lately, has it not, Sir Jace?"

Ignoring the Count's request, he stood up, tilting his head to the stairwell.

"Perhaps we should take this conversation elsewhere."

"After you, Crusader."


	9. The Gathering Dark

Chapter 9

The Gathering Dark

Remembering the stories that Sovyria had told him, the ones involving the Vampire Count, he braced himself for bad news. One was not a creature of the dark, even a "good" one without access to certain circles. The kind of circles that he and his knights sought to dissolve. But such circles had to first be located, and the only way to do that was to have well placed friends.

"I've been hearing disturbing rumors from my, shall we say, less than reputable friends. Ever since Sovyria defeated the King of Worms, there has been infighting amongst the necromancer factions. This may seem trivial to you," he cocked an eyebrow, "but Mannimarco was the only one powerful enough to pull these dissident factions together toward a common cause. Without him, they are leaderless and largely directionless as a collective."

"That hardly sounds like a problem; if they're leaderless, they're less of a threat," he responded, but started wondering at the truth of the words as they exited his mouth.

"You would think so," Janus continued, "but when you are part of an established order, such as yourselves, or the Arcane University's Mage's Guild, or, say, the Empire, it is better to know that your enemy has a visible, or at least identifiable leader. Umaril, Mannimarco, the Hordes of Oblivion. These villains allowed their respective adversaries to unite against a common foe. This is a phenomenon that armies take for granted in the field of battle. They can see their enemies."

"So you're saying we have an unseen enemy; and because he or she is unseen, we cannot unite on the field of battle until we flush it out?"

"Even more nuanced than that. When an army is on campaign, they seek an enemy that they know exists. It may be hiding, but they know it is there; and therefore, the army is on high alert," he paused, looking at the map of Cyrodiil, frowning. "It is not the unseen enemy we must be wary of; it is the unknown enemy."

He studied the Count's face, searching for that which he left unsaid. Sovyria had told him that Janus was interested in two things above all others: order and preservation. Chaos was bad for business; chaos was bad for rule; chaos forced him to come out of his caste, which he was loathe to do unless the need was dire.

"You know that we seek to eliminate necromancers; their art is an affront to Arkay, and we will not stand for it. But I must ask that you tell me what threat these necros are to you, that you would depart from your home and seek me in mine."

The Count took his gaze away from the map and fixed it on him, studying him the same way he had been studied.

"I had forgotten of your close relationship with Sovyria. No doubt she had much to say about her dealings with me," he held eye contact a bit longer, before clasping his hands behind his back, his brow softening. "I was sorry to hear of your failed marriage attempt. Truly sorry. It is a lonely world, when you can't be with the one you love. But rules are rules, I suppose. Rules made by men, and rules of a more…divine nature."

He managed to keep his composure, but he had kept it from his mind for so long, that the flood of emotion came back stronger than he thought that it would. He fixed his eyes on the Red Diamond banner.

"It was for the best…I guess…who knew the rules of being Arch-Mage had such caveats. It was a difficult potion to swallow," he went through his rehearsed lines. "But in the long run, it is probably for the best. Her place is in the Imperial City, and mine here at Castle Relleis; each with our own duties and responsibilities; it was probably a doomed love from the start," he returned his eyes to the Count's. "I was sorry to hear of your wife. I often find myself in battle with vampires, but I took no delight when I heard the news."

"I'm guessing Sovyria told you of that as well; you're one of the few to know of her condition," he said, taking his turn to break eye contact. "In the end, she begged me to take her life. She told me I was relieved of any guilt from her end; but I guess personal guilt is ours to either live with or forget. It is, as you say, a difficult potion to swallow" he finished.

"Indeed."

They were silent for a moment. But only a brief moment.

"Forgive my lapse into nostalgia, Sir Jace," the Count began. "Back to your question; what threat do these dissident necromancer factions pose to me? The answer, as all answers involving multiple parties and complicated lines of communication and allegiance is…complex."

"I've cleared my morning so that we may discuss this at length, Count. I can clear my afternoon if necessary."

The Count cocked an eyebrow at him, and told him a most disturbing tale.

Necromancers were about as aligned as the Daedric princes, he started. They were lumped together and all assumed to be evil, naturally. But that didn't mean there weren't a few with motives other than evil. Some could even be said to have, at best, benign intentions.

"You'll never read of it in history books, but armies of undead were reported to be seen in the wilderness fighting armies of Mehrunes Dagon. Who but a necromancer syndicate could make that happen?" he asked rhetorically.

Not that he was an apologist for necromancy, but it played its part in the Oblivion Crisis. The Legion, both the Fighter's and Mage's Guilds, the Knights of the Nine, Isola Vitelli; all would be heralded as heroes in the conflict. But their traditional enemies had served similar roles.

"It would be difficult for bandits or marauders to rob Dremora, after all," the Count joked.

"Enemy of my enemy is my temporary friend, I suppose," he acquiesced.

"Just so."

Well, as the story went, necromancers all over Cyrodiil, and possibly all over Tamriel, were in the fight to keep Oblivion out of Nirn. But not all of them wanted to. There were some factions within the necro guild, be it called such, that were more interested in summoning Daedric minions rather than undead ones; they may have, under other circumstances, aligned with the Hordes of Oblivion. It just so happened that Mannimarco's return coincided with the Oblivion Crisis; none of the outside factions would act against him, fearing his immediate wrath.

"We've noticed a number of coincidences that all seem to align themselves with the Oblivion Crisis," he noted to the Count.

"Well, isn't that a point of interest?" he replied cryptically.

"How much do you know," he said, eyeing the Vampire Count.

"It might be easier if you tell me what you know, Sir Jace, and I will do my best to fill in the missing pieces."

So he took his turn to tell Sir Areldur's story from Summerset. Janus nodded, almost knowingly, when he mentioned the growing power in Alinor.

"It is a curious thing, I find, when willing aid is refused," Janus responded, after he finished telling the tale.

"That was my thought as well. But when Areldur told me the rest, I didn't know what to think. I thought it impossible that a political faction would willingly bring the fires of Oblivion to Nirn," he said, shaking his head. "You mentioned some missing pieces?"

Janus took a seat near the fire place, making a show of warming his hands.

"Sovyria is a talented mage; which is why she ascended so quickly into her new position. This is not a slight, just an observation," he quickly followed his first statement before he could be interrupted. "Her predecessor discovered a rather nasty secret. There's a reason Hannibal Traven pushed necromancy out of the Mage's Guild when he did. He knew, that is, he was aware of what we may best refer to as 'goings-on' with some of his mages. But what he lacked proof to act officially upon anyone in particular, and so he cast out all necromancy."

"These 'goings-on' that he stumbled upon…what were they?"

"That particular Daedra-friendly faction I mentioned earlier; they had ties to Mancar Camoran, and therefore…"

"Alinor."

"Truth. Only a mage as powerful as Camoran could have summoned the King of Worms back into Nirn. We know it wasn't Camoran, for their goals were not in line with one another. It's entirely possible" he continued, "that Tracen himself, knowing of the Mannimarco's power and charisma, brought his rival back…enemy of my enemy, after all."

"Traven brought the King of Worms back? That's…difficult to believe."

"I realize that. However, I know of no other sorcerer powerful enough to do that, at least not here in Cyrodiil. And though it makes no sense to the untrained eye, Traven had to know that while untrustworthy, a united necromancer faction was another faction against Dagon; not for him. It proved, in the long run, to be his undoing. But who's to say how many unknown battles were won by the Order of the Worm? Traven knew he took a great risk, if indeed it was his hand that brought Mannimarco back. Either way, the Daedra friendly faction was kept in check out of their fear for the Worm's power."

"Fair point. Whether it was Traven or another mage, I guess I won't rule anything out at this point. Go on."

After a show of thought, he added, "There is another tale I must tell you before you hear it from someone else. To understand it, you must understand that the wizards of Alinor are the finest and greatest. Period. It's not simply that their spells are powerful. They are devastatingly accurate; barring the rarest of exceptions, they don't miss their intended target. I want you to keep that in mind when I tell you the next part."

"Noted," he responded.

"I've heard stories of refugees from the Summerset Isles, about the Battle of the Crystal Tower. The Wizards of Alinor fought heroically, they say. The Wizards fought to the bitter end, they say. Spell were flying everywhere, sending the Hordes of Oblivion back to where they belong. And oh, they fought so valiantly. And even though many of their spells missed and struck the tower, they also struck their foe. It was actually difficult to know who was casting what spell and from where and the blinding flashes of light were so spectacular and there was confusion and chaos and then, despite their valiancy and bravery, the Tower fell. But the Wizard fought on, and managed to close the Oblivion Gate not long after the Crystal Tower was destroyed."

He took a moment to digest the tale. The most accurate and powerful mages missed, apparently consistently. And closed the Gate to Oblivion only _after_ the Tower fell.

"We know from Areldur's version of the story that Alinor wanted the Tower to fall, presumably to make the Empire look weak. But from what you're telling me, they not only let it fall, but actively took part in its destruction, but only while the Gate was still open, which you're leading me to believe they could have closed at any time they wished."

"There is a little known secret about the Wizards of Alinor; they aren't just the finest in Nirn; they can actually go toe to toe with the Hordes of Oblivion and win; consistently. They summon Dremora and train against them. Constantly."

"Which is why you were so fascinated with my earlier display," he said aloud.

"Indeed. You're prowess as a warrior is, perhaps, unmatched in all of Tamriel. A contest between you and Vivec himself…I'm not certain who would be victorious. But you understand my meaning."

"I do; the Mythic Dawn…Mancar Camoran was setting up the Daedric invasion to defeat the Empire, or at least weaken it enough so that the Wizards of Alinor could save the day; drive back the Hordes and prove their superiority. The Empire couldn't survive that; and it would pave the way for Summerset Isles to exert their influence."

"Yes; and the capitol of the Summerset Empire would no longer be White Gold Tower; but a rebuilt Crystal Tower."

"But they didn't count on Isola Vitelli, or Martin Septim. They didn't just save the Empire from Dagon; they acted swiftly enough that Alinor couldn't mobilize for their quasi-invasion to 'save the day,'" he stated, thinking aloud.

"Very true. And so you met Gareth. And you know how that story ended."

"That was part of Areldur's discovery, yes. I'm guessing they didn't count on his eventual defeat."

"No; they did not. But credit must be given to their resolve. For they still have agents at work and schemes in place. I wouldn't be surprised if when the history books finally are written of this, some source will have discovered that Mephala herself is the grand architect."

He suddenly found himself laughing.

"You find this amusing?"

"The thought of it; Mephala. Mehrunes Dagon thinks he's going to invade and take over Tamriel, and in the end, as you say, it would be a practical joke by one of his cousins; pulling his strings, making him think he'll succeed where Molag Bal failed with Cold Harbor. A grand and terrible cosmic joke."

The Count eyed him, warily.

"Does this thought trouble you? A grand cosmic joke? Do you question your faith at such a notion? Why would the Nine allow such chaos?"

He ceased his laughter and folded his arms across his chest, but kept his grin.

"I've heard that question before, and though it took me some time, I came up with this answer," he cleared his throat. "With little exception, the Daedric princes have nothing but loathing for us mortals, and no doubt plot and scheme against us constantly. And we see a crisis, and we see fires that we mortals must put out at varying points in our history," he took a breath, then continued. "Think of how powerful the Daedra are, but how infrequently these crises occur. For me, that is the Nine, fighting on our behalf. Winning most of the battles. Does one occasionally get through their defenses, yes. But remember two things: One, by virtue of their very name, the Nine are outnumbered; they can't win every battle. But Two: they always come to our aid at the critical moment; witness Akatosh defeating Dagon."

The Count looked at him, at a loss for words.

"To answer your question," he broke the silence, "I do not believe the Nine allow such crises willingly. Rather, they fight on our behalf to prevent them. But our faith in them must be buttressed by actions on their behalf when we are facing the flames of Oblivion."

"It doesn't help, then, when mortals align themselves with Daedra to achieve their own selfish goals. Witness the aforementioned Cold Harbor," Janus said pensively.

He thought on that for a moment.

"All too true," he agreed. "Which is why you and I and those like us need to constantly be vigilant, and seek out those that threaten our world for their own selfish ends."

"Agreed…Jace, if I may call you that, do keep an eye open. I fear we've only seen the opening acts of what will be a grand tragedy for the Empire…there are dark forces still at work. And both you and your Order will be pressed to enter the conflict in ways you'd prefer to avoid."

"You mean we'll have to take our Order into the political arena."

"I fear it may come to that; I will continue to ask my friends what they can find out about Alinor's intentions, but I must caution you; I find my sources are drying up at an alarmingly high rate. I fear their affiliation with me is costing them their lives. How ironic, isn't it? That I, a creature of the night will soon be in the dark."

They stood in silence for a while. He wasn't sure what to say to these new revelations. A plot even darker than Areldur discovered. Perhaps it was time he talked to his trusted circle of friends to see what could be done. If the Knights of the Nine were to enter the political battles, they must not repeat the mistakes made in the War of the Red Diamond. He didn't know if the Order could survive.

"We'll be watchful," he said finally, returning to his guest. "And you do likewise."

The count glanced to the shuttered window; the sun was setting, and he would no doubt return to Skingrad come nightfall.

"Give my best to Sovyria, when you see her again."

"You mean if," he chuckled.

"When," the Count replied, cocking an eyebrow.


End file.
